“I know,” I tell him, surprised I actually believe it. “Ready?” I say to Jack, and take him by the elbow to drag him away.

When did that happen, the confidence that Gavin really wants me? There’s a little bit of glee in it, a lot of smugness.

“So should I ask what that was about?” Jack asks after a moment, breaking into my thoughts.

I release his arm when I realize I am rudely power walking us down the path toward the caf and tuck my cold hands in my pockets. I’ve forgotten my mittens again.

I shake my head. “No,” I say firmly. “He’s not important.”

“Okay,” he says, and then smiles. “Hi.”

I like his face. How could I have pretended not to like him?

He holds his gloved hand out, and I take it with my bare one.

“So you appear to be glowing today,” he says. “Is there any particular reason why?”

I laugh. “I feel like I’m glowing,” I say. “I feel like we did something extraordinary, and how are we ever going to top this?”

“I feel that you will all find a way,” he says.

“You also have a career on the stage, Mr. Suave and Charismatic.”

He appears low-key mortified by that, ducking his head. “I’m fairly surprised I pulled it off, to be honest.”

“It never showed for a second,” I say, squeezing his hand.

“Tell me about what’s next. Milan.”

“Milan,” I say, and my heart skips. “But first, two more shows. Midterms. Rehearsal. Showcases. Graduate. And then go to Milan for the summer to work with the best dancers in the world and launch a brilliant career, whatever that looks like.” I pause. “My mom thinks that means I’ll become the world’s most famous dancer and buy her an island. No pressure. Her other plan is that we’ll go on gluten-free diets, I’ll lose eighty pounds, and then we’re off to LA.”

He slants a glance at me. “That’s a lot,” he says, pulling open the door to the caf. “And it’s fairly absolutely ridiculous.”

I shrug. “You can tell her that. She wants everything for me. She doesn’t stop to think which part of everything I want. I’m starting to believe she never will.” I want to change the subject. Not think about it all right now. “That got very serious!” I say.

“Parent talk is very serious!” he says. “Let’s talk about something much better.”

“Baby animals,” I say.

“No, no, far too frivolous and not at all manly. English literature!”

“I have feelings about Shakespeare, and none of them are positive.”

“No!” he says. “The bard weeps.”

“The bard can die mad.” I consider that. “Maybe he did.”